


Nightlight

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how to tag this, I guess???, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Romance, i don't even know what this fic is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-01 22:19:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13304499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: “God, I almost lost you.” John whispers harshly, raw and desperate, and Harold's heart echoes the sentiment.





	Nightlight

**Author's Note:**

> I've had a rather emotional day, and apparently that leads to me suddenly having a very disjointed writing style. Who knew. Just, don't question it pls? I have no idea what the hell this fic is, it kinda just... happened. I have no control over what I write.

“Kara once told me that we walk in the dark. She was right, but... it's more than that. It's not just dark, it's cold and it rains and no matter what, it'll drench and freeze you in the end. Can't fight something like rain.”

John's voice is wavering, control strung too tightly around it, constraining it, making it quiver through the dim room. Quiver like the warm light of the candle flames on the bedside table and that light makes the crusted scratch on his temple look nearly black against his skin. But the harsh contrast cannot compete with the blue of his eyes, with the softness in them. That light turns the silvery grey in his hair golden, dusting it with glowing embers.

He is beautiful, and the embers spark when Harold runs his hand through that hair. He watches John turn away even as he leans into the touch, turning towards the nightstand, the candles. Shadows play over his neck as he swallows thickly. Harold wants nothing more than to reach out with his other hand as well, hold him, comfort him, kiss him. He remains quiet and unmoving, just listening.

Outside, raindrops patter against the windows.

* * *

 _Why_ , he wants to ask, the single syllable – so short for such a loaded question – is the only thing that permeates the fog of panic in his mind, anchors him as his brain tries to catalogue all that is still going on around them, all the movement and noise and he knows it is too much, knows he would get lost in it without John.

The flames roar skywards, loud even through the ringing in his ears from the explosion and far too close for his comfort. He can feel the heat of them seeping even through the layers of clothes he wears, and for a moment all the sees is Nathan's face, the smile on it, beaming with relief and joy and unwavering friendship, so dear and comforting a sight to him, before his best friend, the person he has been relying on for the majority of his life, is swallowed by the blast that destroys the ferry.

John's hand, rough with gun callouses, wraps around his own, pulling his attention away from the past back to him. His eyes look so blue in contrast with the fresh blood running down the side of his face from the fresh bullet graze. Darker than usual, and yet feverishly bright.

“You okay?” he asks him, and Harold wants to ask him the same, but the _why_ is still ringing through his thoughts, clinging to the tip of his tongue. He nods, observing the way the flames are reflected in the blood, how their orange, distorted mirror image plays over the blue of John's irises.

* * *

“God, I almost lost you.” John whispers harshly, raw and desperate, and Harold's heart echoes the sentiment, pounding painfully in his chest in a way he is half sure John can feel, as close as they are. At the very least, he must be hearing it, and Harold would be concerned of giving himself, his feelings away if it wasn't already too late for this particular concern.

The fingers of his left hand are sticky where he cups John's face, where the blood is still running from his temple, even if more sluggishly now. John's breath is warm against his lips, coming too fast and harsh as if he is trying to breathe Harold in like he is oxygen and John is suffocating. The rain is getting heavier by the second even though John's larger body shields him from the worst of it. The cold drops of it are beyond his notice as he finally allows himself to lean in and when they meet his own, John's lips taste like rainwater.

* * *

“Good morning, Mr Reese.” he speaks into their still empty office when he hears John's quiet footsteps – inaudible, if he hadn't been listening for them – coming down the hall. “Your timing is impeccable.”

Predictably, the first thing he sees of his partner is his hand placing the cup of sencha green onto the desk next to him. The steam rises and curls from it even in the warm air of the library. He takes a sip of it. As always, it's perfect, just the way he likes it. Every day it takes more effort to refrain from smiling at John, every day he needs to remind himself more frequently that the former agent is a very observant man and that the risk of giving his inappropriate feelings away is too great. John is standing too close and it fuels the hope that has grown like a weed in his foolish heart, pushes aside yet a little more of his restraint.

“New number?”

“Lawrence Gacey, 31, works for a cellphone repair service. No criminal record aside from a few parking and speeding tickets...”

* * *

With a final click, John lets the lighter go out, setting it down on the night stand next to the candles he just lit. The small flames drench the area in a golden light, chasing away the dark of the night, a blackness so much more dense than usual without the myriad of streetlights and still lit windows to diminish it as they usually do.

When he turns back to Harold, there is once again a nervousness about him, a hesitance even as he almost closes the distance between them, allowing less than an inch to remain. Harold watches the longing and desperation fill the blue depths of his eyes and realises that John is waiting for permission to touch him. He grants it by pulling him close and claiming his lips.

Trembling fingers struggle with buttons and as layers of cloth finally fall to the floor, they leave their suits lying where they fell. In the back of Harold's mind is the faintest whisper that they should be folded and put away properly. John's skin has the colour of honey as he sinks down against the white sheets and his scars shimmer like cracks someone has poured molten gold into and Harold leans down over him, suits forgotten.

* * *

The gun is pointed directly at his chest and even though he is hyper aware of his own heartbeat, about how wide his eyes have gone the moment he realised the predicament he fount himself in, he feels strangely calm. He has the wry and somewhat absurd thought that his calm indicates that he has become too used to situations with a high probability of ending fatal, and that that should probably make him re-evaluate his life choices. It doesn't, and before he can spare another thought to what that might say about his mental state, he is pushed to the ground.

And now the panic sets in. It drowns out the pain of the fall – even though there is less than expected because of course, of course John is acutely aware of Harold's body's limitations even in situations when no one could reasonably expect him to be, and so he broke the fall in the way that hurts Harold the least – and for a moment, all he hears is the gunshot echoing through the warehouse, all he sees is the blood on John's head.

The panic still refuses to subside even when it finally registers that – _oh thank god_ – the wound is harmless, nothing more than a small gaze on John's right temple, but it's close, too close, only inches away from taking John from him.

There is another gunshot and from the corner of his eye he sees Gacey's head snap back and his body fall, lifeless. The gun that until the fraction of a second ago had been trained on Harold falls uselessly to the cold ground and it's only the noise of it hitting the concrete that makes John slowly lower his own. But it's too late. The warehouse shakes with the explosion that tears the power supply line running underneath it apart and the neon lights flicker out and outside, so do the lights of a good part of the city.

His ears are ringing and the only light left is that of the flames. Harold's gaze is drawn to the blood on John's temple, his mind fogging with panic, with the knowledge just how close he came to losing John just because his infuriating partner pushed him out of the bullet's path. _Why_ , he wants to ask, the single syllable – so short for such a loaded question – is the only thing that permeates the fog of panic in his mind.

* * *

Harold's heartbeat is only just beginning to slow, the sweat cooling his body even though the rush of endorphins are still preventing him from truly noticing any physical discomfort. But then his eyes catch on the way John's shimmer a little too brightly in the candle light, a little too wet, and he almost panics. What if he misread the situation, what if John regrets everything that just happened between them, what if he had simply indulged Harold out of a sense of obligation, what if he'd unintentionally _forced him_...?

Too quickly, John turns away and sits up, hiding his face and Harold's heartbeat speeds again, though it is most definitely not from pleasure now. The cold that suddenly envelops him has nothing to do with his state of undress and the sheen of sweat covering his skin. It's a cold that begins around his aching heart and panicking mind, it seeps through his bones and into his bloodstream until he feels like he should be shaking with it.

But John doesn't stand and walk away, all he does is grab the blanket that's been pushed to the foot of the bed. He pulls it with him when he lies back down, settling close to Harold and tucking the blanket tight around them both, cocooning them in warmth and softness. A world of their own, of scarred skin and shared breath. The brief glimpse he catches before John hides his face in the crook of his neck makes him suspect – _hope_ – that John is overwhelmed rather than regretful or harmed.

So for once he obeys the demands of his heart and cups John's face the way he did when they shared that first kiss in the rain. John leans into the touch with a dry, helpless sob leaving him, and presses himself even closer to Harold, seeking his lips. The kiss they share is devoid of heat – for the moment at least, it is too soon for more of that – but filled with twice the earlier desperation.

“Please, my dear, tell me what's wrong.” Harold whispers when the need for breath forces them apart.

John hesitates for a moment, probably attempting to find the right words, before he starts speaking, his voice wavering. “Kara once told me that we walk in the dark. She was right, but... it's more than that. It's not just dark, it's cold and it rains and no matter what, it'll drench and freeze you in the end. Can't fight something like rain.”

* * *

His eyes widen at what he finds when his program finally deciphers the encryption of their number's surprisingly sophisticated secure chatroom. He taps his earpiece.

“Mr Gacey isn't working alone, he's working with a group of self-proclaimed anarchists called The... Mr Reese? _John?_ ”

There is only static. Time seems to stretch as he hurries to his car and the air he moves through seems to be made of molasses even as he accelerates as much as he dares in the city.

* * *

The air between them seems electrostatically charged as they climb the dark stairs to John's apartment, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from John's body, chasing away the cold from the rains that has soaked his suit, but not enough to touch. There is a mutual understanding between that the next time they touch, neither will want to stop again and a part of Harold wishes the elevator would work. But this place, just like all of Manhattan, is affected by the power outage caused by the explosion and the discomfort in his left leg from the exertion is a small price to pay.

The keys clink in John's hand, and he imagines he can see it shake when a car drives by outside, briefly illuminating the hallway, startlingly bright after the pitch black. The lock clicks and the door opens and Harold steps inside at a sedate pace, still keeping a careful few inches between him and John, even as he'd much rather press him against the wall and kiss him incoherent.

“Do you happen to own candles?” his voice cuts through the charged silence.

“Want to set the mood, Harold?” John teases, though it comes out sounding a little too forced and nervous and perhaps even a little too _fond_ as well. He decides to indulge him; indulge them both really, the familiar banter allows some of the tension to dissipate and lets him breathe a little easier.

“Naturally. And you _are_ quite the sight, it would be a shame to miss the opportunity to, let's say, see a little _more_ of you than usual.”

* * *

The sun has already set when Harold finally pulls into the driveway of the warehouse underneath which the target of their number's plot lies. The sound of gunfire reaches him even before he has opened the door.

* * *

John is utterly breathtaking in his pleasure. His hands are twisted in the sheets, gripping the fabric tight, yet they haven't moved an inch from where Harold had gently pressed them to the mattress, wordlessly asking him to keep them there. Over and over again, his eyes fall closed, against his will, if the way he keeps forcing them back open is any indication and every moan and gasp Harold captures makes his lips taste sweeter. He has long licked away any taste of rain, all that remains is something undefinable.

When he pulls away for a moment, he sees the way John's arms begin to tremble, so he reaches out, caressing them soothingly, before bending to nip at John's collarbone, drawing yet another groan from him before whispering his permission into his skin and touching his lips softly to the bullet graze as he feels John's palms press hesitantly against the skin of his back. He cannot describe the way John is touching him as anything other than _reverent_.

* * *

“Why did the Machine give us Gacey's number? I saw the blueprints and notes. He was an amateur but he was careful. He wasn't trying to actively kill anyone.” John breaks the silence as Harold locks the car and they turn towards John's apartment. He is well aware that John could easily clean the graze by himself; as shallow as it is, it most likely doesn't even require cleaning.

It's as convenient excuse as any to remain by each other's side, to linger like they tend to do after such a close call, a much more frequent occurrence than Harold would like. Whenever Harold isn't looking too overtly, John is shooting him short, worried glances, so he thinks he can be permitted his indulgence in this particular weakness. A drop of rain runs from his neck into his suit, soaking coolly into his dress shirt.

“He wasn't, he was the victim of the planned homicide, even if the perpetrator of the explosion. A loner with a known history of questionable mental stability... His associates knew they wouldn't get away with this scot-free, so they were setting him up as a scapegoat.”

Despite the darkness – with the streetlights unlit due to the power outage and the thick clouds overhead, the only light stems from the traffic – he sees the way John's lips thin as he presses them together, sees his shoulders tense up and his entire body begin to shake faintly and he stops just in front of the entrance to the building he'd bought along with John's apartment. The pelting of the rain rushes in his ears and he helplessly watches his hand raise, dream-like, as though disconnected from his body, condemned to observe without being able to interfere.

His intention is to comfort John, distract him before any of the guilt he is so painfully prone to feeling can take a true hold of him, but Harold recognises his mistake when his hand – fingers cooled by the relentless rain, stark white against the blood on John's skin – cups John's face with so much more care than he ought to. He knows he has given himself away even before John does and he can only wait and watch with dread as the realisation sinks in for John as well. The resignation he feels surprises him, although perhaps it shouldn't. After all, this was only ever a question of when rather than if.

But the shudder he feels running through John where he despite everything can't bring himself to break the touch isn't one of apprehension, over the patter of the rain it seems almost like relief. “ _Harold._ ” the other forces out brokenly. He isn't quite sure which one of them moves, or perhaps it is both of them, he cannot think of anything beyond how close they are now. “God, I almost lost you.” John whispers harshly, raw and desperate, and he can feel John's breath warm against his lips.

* * *

Outside, raindrops patter against the windows, but he still hears John's shaking sigh as he turns even further away, hears the rustling of the soft sheets as he moves. The arm that is wrapped around Harold remains firmly in place, but he stretches the other, reaching for the candles and the golden light that dances on their tips. John runs a finger through the flames, carefully, only just fast enough to prevent himself from being burnt. It does not prevent Harold's heart from clenching with worry at the sight. The white pillowcase they're laying on is speckled with flakes of dried blood.

John's voice is barely above a whisper when he finally continues, filled with uncertainty. “But you... You're like a candle to me. Warm and bright and comforting after stumbling around in the dark for so long that I've almost forgotten what light looks like. And I want to wrap my hand around the flame to protect it from the rain, keep it from going out. And I know that it'll burn me if I get too close, but that's still better than feeling nothing but the cold, as long as it just doesn't go out.”

Harold swallows. He wants to tell John that they're already too close, already burnt. That if Harold is a candle, John is a bonfire made of protection and kindness and hope. That if he needs Harold to keep burning, to keep providing him with light and warmth, by all means he'll cast himself in phosphorus and thermite so that the rain cannot harm him.

“Do you know just how unbearably fond of you I am?” is what slips out instead, low and intimate, raw and bashfully honest.

And John turns back to him and reaches for him, capturing his lips again like a moth drawn to a flame.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! I hope the weird narrative didn't confuse you too much and it was enjoyable despite it? As always, comments are the light and joy of my life because I'd really love to know what you think about this 3k of weirdness!


End file.
